


The Stories Lied

by atonalremix



Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Bat Family, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:46:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atonalremix/pseuds/atonalremix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damian had always thought that his father was a terror of the night. Instead, Father turned out to be some schlump relying on self-help books to help Damian cope with normalcy! Of all the things Talia had to get wrong, it had to be her stories about Batman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stories Lied

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday gift for a long-time friend, this takes place before the reboot (and thus attempts to keep those relationships the same). 
> 
> Initially posted November 3rd, 2010, with a few adjustments/grammatical changes since then.

Bruce Wayne was nothing like the man in the stories Mother used to tell. From the moment Father had returned home, Wayne Manor had been a flurry of activity. As Damian peered down at the headless chickens - okay, servants - from the staircase balcony, he couldn't help shaking his head. Honestly! His father's return didn't signify a commandment to act stupid! Except, wait: they already were. In the eye of the storm, his father calmly sat on the couch with a thick book. From this distance, Damian couldn't tell the genre: for all he knew, his poor father might've fallen victim to those nasty _Twilight_ books Brown liked so much. Standing up, Damian wove through the crowds to meet Father.

The second he could see the title, Damian flinched. _Y'Allah_ , what kind of demon had possessed Bruce Wayne long enough to make him read something called "The Time-Honored Art of Father-Son Bonding?" Pulling his palm down his face, Damian grimaced. He wanted a father who acted like the hero in Mother's stories. That hero, the one who struck terror into men's hearts, would have whipped his staff into shape. He wasn't some schlump who... who apparently sat around reading self-help books all day.

Casually turning the page, Father didn't bother to look up as he asked, "Yes, Damian?"

Nothing ever got past him. Damian gestured towards the torn spine. "Why're you reading that garbage?"

"That garbage is my way of passing the time." Father casually raised an eyebrow, now meeting Damian's sullen gaze. He quietly motioned for Damian to sit down beside him, but Damian had the sneaky feeling that Father was hiding a smile behind those pages. "... So how do you feel about fly-fishing?"

"Hate it." Damian didn't have to be asked twice, even if he'd never been. Plopping onto the couch, he casually propped his feet against the coffee table - much to the maid's dismay ("Master Damian! Put those feet down NOW!)" and Alfred's amusement - before he carefully inspected the cover jacket. A father-son team, presumably, were laughing and joking about something while they sat on a vintage Ford's hood. The cover was entirely in black-and-white, as if it were printed when Father was a boy, and it had food stains on the side from being read at the dinner table.

Was this really how American families passed the time? As if he could read Damian's mind, Father remarked, "Sometimes. I haven't met anyone that actually goes through all of these rites of passage." There was a solemn note in his voice, Damian noted - as if he were gulping down something painful.

Damian didn't want to push his luck. He knew of his dead grandparents - who didn't? It was a fact of Bruce Wayne's life that never disappeared - and the hole they'd left in his father's heart. If there was any subject on this Earth that could bring emotion to his normally calm and calculating father, that'd be the one to press. Figures that Father would've never gone fly-fishing with Grandfather. Was Father trying to make up for lost time? He was doing it a tad too late, if anyone asked Damian.

The awkward and uncharacteristic silence lasted for a few minutes, before Grayson broke it with a light tap against the door. He only had to look at them for a millisecond before he pressed his lips together. "Hey. Are you two okay?"

Damian slowly yet confidently nodded. 

In unison, they both told him, "We're fine."

Grayson skeptically stared at them. 

So Damian huffed, rose to his feet, and attempted to push his older brother out the door. "Really. Go do your job, Grayson."

Grayson waited until he'd been pushed out to turn and ruffle Damian's hair. He smiled wryly before he backflipped to avoid an incoming table. The staff didn't even bat an eye at their master's ability. "Jeez," He moaned, before he gave Damian a playful salute. "I'll see you after I get these caterers squared away?" 

Damian didn't get time to respond. The second he opened his mouth, Grayson was already leading another team of caterers to the kitchen.

Bruce chuckled as he watched the entire show. "I don't know why Alfred talked me into a party tonight."

At least Father didn't have to do any of the gruntwork. Damian vaguely remembered the details, since Drake had been blathering on about it for a few hours. They were supposed to pretend that Father wanted to throw a charity dinner, with the special intention of welcoming Cass back to Gotham (when really, they were celebrating Father's life and his return to Gotham, with the intended bonus of Elliot's subsequent ousting.) If anything, Damian suspected that Father wasn't much of a party person. He wasn't surprised; Damian hated parties with a vengeance himself.

"Isn't it supposed to be small?" Damian blinked, surprised that he'd remembered what Drake had discussed earlier in the week. "Like, only a hundred people?" (For this family, a hundred was apparently the smallest it could get.)

"Sounds about right. They're mostly socialites and people I've known since I was a kid." After a moment, he replied, "So I'd appreciate it if you didn't punch Brent Vreeland in the stomach, alright? He didn't mean to insult you at that last gathering."

Damian snorted as he leaned back, "He deserved it." Noticing the suddenly dark expression on Father's face, he quickly amended, "I'll play nice if it matters that much to you." Brent Vreeland was quite possibly one of the stupidest Gotham socialites Damian had the displeasure of meeting, but his mother, Veronica Vreeland, had been a friend of Father's, so Damian knew he'd have to play nice eventually. He just didn't expect it to be this soon.

"It'd help," Bruce admitted, turning a page every now and then. After a moment, he asked, "Camping?"

"Disgusting."

Bruce laughed, "Building model rockets?"

Peering over his shoulder, Damian scanned the contents of the current chapter. The list was progressively becoming more ridiculous by the second, and he was having a hard time believing that Father wanted to take this book seriously. "Father, why're you even bothering with this? You know I'd never be interested."

"It doesn't mean you won't be later." Father glanced back at him before he set the book down beside him and cautiously hovered his hand above Damian's hair. Why was someone so brave hesitating? Damian didn't get it. Batman was the terror of the night and the strongest warrior to grace American society, but in his own living room, Bruce Wayne didn't feel very menacing. How could this man terrorize criminals on a nightly basis if he couldn't bring himself to even ruffle his son's hair like Grayson could? Was it some kind of magic spell that Mother had put on him? 

Maybe it was something in the water. Whatever that quality was, Damian wondered if Father possessed it right now. It sure didn't feel like he did.

Damian casually shrugged. Slowly, Father lowered his hand and gently ruffled his son's hair. Damian could feel the blood rushing to his face. Dangit! He promised... well, he promised himself he wouldn't give in to this moment of weakness. So what if Father wanted to perform this time-honored tradition of 'father-son bonding?' By all means, Damian should seize the opportunity. Something about this just didn't feel right. Like he was playing with a shadow of a man who only acted upon these lists out of guilt. (Damian didn't want his thoughts to wander there. Enough people in Wayne Manor hated him.)

He blinked back surprise, trying so hard to keep that smile off his face. (He knew he was failing at it.) "... Father?"

Father gave him a look - like all those dads on TV when they listened to their kids - as he asked, "You don't like it?"

Startled, Damian slowly reached up to squeeze his dad's hand. "No." He confessed, shyly burying his feet underneath his knees, "It wasn't bad."

"Good," Father smiled down at him. In that instant, Damian's worries melted away. Maybe Father had known exactly what he was doing all along, especially when he casually pulled Damian closer into his arms. Once he'd gotten Damian settled into this sideways embrace, Father again picked up his stupid self-help book. "What about road trips?" 

Those ridiculous trips where you sat in a car and aimlessly drove from place to place? Damian didn't like the sound of them. He knew they'd be boring, uninformative, and would primarily consist of pointless records like "the world's biggest ball of yarn." No, flying had to be the best method to get from point A to point B.

Yet, despite his inhibitions, Damian found himself nodding at Father's suggestion. "Sounds good." Blatantly lying already? Just to spend time with his father? How the mighty have fallen. Enjoying his father's grip, Damian snuggled closer. "We're going to ditch tonight's party, aren't we?"

"You know me better than I thought," Father grinned. "How does Boston sound?"

Damian shrugged, trying to act casual about his agreeable mood. "Anywhere with you's good."

It was the truth: all road trips were the same. (TV lied about a lot of things, but the pointlessness of road trips - so far - wasn't one of them.) Watching people slowly regain their sense of purpose, Father then greeted Drake and Brown as they awkwardly stepped inside. Damian closed his eyes and pretended that he'd already fallen asleep. How dare Drake and Brown ruin his "quality bonding time" with Father! They were the ones in charge of Cass's welcome home party; they needed to be in the other rooms to coordinate decorations and food with the staff! Brown tried to act casual, and Drake tried to act like he didn't care, but their awkward footsteps and heavy postures said otherwise. They couldn't hide their uneasiness from Damian, not even for a millisecond.

"Uh, Bruce." Drake coughed, keeping his gaze on Father as much as he could, "Where're we putting the ice statues? The caterers're getting impatient."

"Plus, the DJ wants your opinion on these songs." Brown bit her lip. "Or do you---"

"Why don't you two handle it," Father dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "It's a party. You two're more than capable of solving these dilemmas yourself."

Drake's face became slightly red as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, sure. We'll talk to you later?"

For two competent vigilantes, they sure had a weird tendency to nearly crash into the door, servants, and even a card table on their way out. They had secret identities to hide, sure, but Damian was fairly certain that if Grayson could backflip, Drake and Brown could've performed the limbo without much hassle. Opening an eye, Damian lazily yawned before he gripped Father's arm even tighter. "They're getting clumsier by the second." 

Father again ruffled Damian's hair as he leaned back, "... They're just not used to this." ' _I'm not used to this_ ,' was the silent addendum that even Damian understood. He didn't mind; he couldn't say that he knew what it felt like to spend time with his biological father. There'd been the numerous outings and parties that Grayson dragged Damian to, but it felt less like a father's guiding hand than an older brother protecting him from the pitfalls of social life. Grayson had been more of a father than Father had, Damian wouldn't deny that. Yet when Father wanted so desperately to act normal around Damian, Damian didn't exactly have the heart to refuse Father's (insane) wishes.

A few seconds passed before Damian assured him with a, "I know." He reluctantly released himself from Father's arms before he rose to his feet. "We should help them. The more we look like we're interested, the less they'll suspect our voluntary disappearance."

"I didn't say we were going to Boston tonight."

"It's either go to Boston tonight, or do some even more ridiculous bonding activity." Damian rolled his eyes. Sometimes Father could be even more clueless than Grayson! Still, Father only smirked in response before he laid the book on the table and lead the way to the dining room. Casually, Father seized Damian's hand and intertwined his fingers with Damian's before they passed the staff and the rest of their family going about their various activities. 

Grayson was still flipping to avoid incoming collisions with furniture - maybe Grayson was the clumsy one - while Drake was busy arguing with a caterer ("I told you we wanted a swan, not the Swan Queen!") and Brown was arranging various flowers into a large, eggplant-colored vase. Damian would've called the vase purple, but he'd had one too many arguments with Brown to really press the matter. Plus, this vase _actually_ looked like an eggplant. 

Damian hadn't met Cass in a while - or ever, really - and part of him vaguely wondered how she'd feel when they disappeared into the night. "Are we taking Cass with us?" He quietly whispered in Father's ear. 

Father shook his head. "Cass has been here for a week and a half now. This is more of a formal welcoming." In other words, he'd already welcomed her back without Damian. No wonder Drake and Brown weren't as frantic as Damian'd expected them to be. They passed a few more rooms, avoiding the numerous helpers working their magic (not including Zatanna, who'd used real magic in the ballroom) all over the manor. 

So what if Father wasn't menacing? So what if he wasn't always a strong warrior who could hold his own in battle? He was still Damian's father by blood. He'd given Damian life, not to mention constant headaches this afternoon, and he'd continue to be a consistent presence in Damian's life. (He hoped.) Why else would they intend on ditching everyone for a stupid road trip? 

When the time seemed right, Damian squeezed Father's hand tighter. "Da--Father? Thank you." 

Father stopped mid-stride and curiously glanced down at Damian. A slow smile spread across his face as he responded warmly, "You're welcome." Without another word, they stopped in the kitchen and set down to work to finish preparations for the rest of the evening. Mother's stories had gotten everything wrong except in one aspect: her Batman and his father... was still the world's strongest person. He could handle the stress of a dinner party with jokes and laughter and his multitude of children with some ease (and plenty of awkwardness). He may not know the proper method to calm down a sullen child, or the proper way to welcome back a daughter when she'd been studying aboard in Hong Kong, but he knew how to make them all feel loved and welcomed. ... Well, most of his children. Not even Damian was sure where Todd fell in this mess, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Maybe Todd and Alfred had snuck off to finish some last-minute grocery shopping.

Damian supposed that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have it any other way, even if that meant he'd have to deal with Father and his ridiculous self-help books for the rest of his life. Some of Father's painful (and stupid) hobbies were worth the price.


End file.
